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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29529291">If I'm to die</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/since_I_saw_vienna/pseuds/since_I_saw_vienna'>since_I_saw_vienna</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Child Neglect, Fluff, Gen, Good Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Panic Attacks, Paranoia, Protective Wilbur Soot, TommyInnit-centric (Video Blogging RPF), featuring: my overuse of parentheses, unreliable narrator tommyinnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:41:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29529291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/since_I_saw_vienna/pseuds/since_I_saw_vienna</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy is used to being alone. He can handle himself. (He's lying, but that's okay)</p><p>Or; 3 times Tommy calls Wilbur, and one time he doesn't need to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1012</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>If I'm to die</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note- this is in no way meant to portray or speculate on Tommy's real life or parents! I'm sure mother and fatherinnit are lovely people. </p><p>If any creators involved express discomfort with this type of fic I will gladly take it down!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is the first day, and Tommy thinks he might die. </p><p>It's a little bit dramatic, but it's true nonetheless. Tommy might be loud and brash and brave on stream, but above all, he's still just a kid. And kids can afford to be a little dramatic, he thinks. </p><p>He stares up at his ceiling, tracing the faint patterns blankly, and the thought crosses his mind again. It's brief, distant, like his head is stuffed with cotton; he thinks he might die. </p><p>The house is too quiet (<em> it's always too quiet </em>), and instinctively his ears strain to catch the faint noise of the television or the clacking of his father's keyboard. He knows he won't hear anything. The house is quiet, and it is empty, and Tommy doesn't know what time it is anymore. He hasn't moved to find out.</p><p>He scolds himself, then, because you'd think he'd get used to this eventually. He's being overdramatic, his parents have been gone more often than they're home for years now. It was a simple fact of his life, something he had to accept. He had accepted it (<em> then why does it still hurt so bad? </em> ). After all, Tommyinnit was a big man, and he can take care of himself. He has to. He <em> should </em> be able to. ( <em> Why is it still so hard? </em>)</p><p>His parents had left the day prior, rattling off some excuse about a business trip or something. Tommy can't remember. All he knows is that they had said three weeks. It's fine. He can do three weeks. He tries not to think about how they were barely home for four days. It makes his chest ache in an odd kind of way. </p><p>The droning of the fan in the corner of his room grates against the inside of his skull. How can the house be so silent and still feel so loud? It makes him feel empty and like he's bursting at the seams all at once. Tommy's hand twitches where it rests in his sheets. He can hear every breath he takes, and it's driving him mad. It somehow makes his chest feel heavier, like there's a weight atop it. The air is warm and sluggish as he pulls it into his lungs, pooling in his chest and making him feel sick. Tommy thinks he might die. </p><p>Here's a little secret (it's not really): Tommy has always hated being alone. He jokes about Tubbo being the clingy one, but everyone knows it's him. He appreciates that no one brings it up. </p><p>It's just the way the silence grates on his ears. He feels like he could die here and no one would know. He needs to fill the silence. He needs to grab his phone, move to his computer, but his limbs refuse to move. He knows that he could<em> , </em> that he <em> should </em>, but it just seems so hard. It's like the vacancy of the house has spread to his chest, leaving him feeling achingly empty. </p><p>Tommy can feel heat building behind his eyes, but he swallows it back. He doesn't even really feel sad. It's an odd indifference, a heavy kind of acceptance. But that's not quite right, either, because for some reason he still <em> aches. </em> It hurts and he doesn't know why because he doesn't feel <em> sad </em>(He doesn't think he feels much of anything). Nonetheless, there are tears in his eyes and an ache in his lungs and Tommy thinks he might die.</p><p>Part of him is desperate to pull up discord and call his friends, to lose himself in their noise. He knows he'll only feel worse when he hangs up. He doesn't even know what time it is, anyway. They're probably busy. It wouldn't be fair to call when he's like this, he knows he wouldn't be very fun to talk to. His hand moves away from the phone laying in the sheets near him. No, they don't deserve that. </p><p>Tommy can handle this, he'll be fine. The words run like a mantra in his head, something he doesn't really believe but clings to nonetheless. (<em> Why does he still feel like crying? </em>)</p><p>His head hurts, and there's a pounding behind his eyes. He closes them again, and he can see the afterimage of his ceiling burned into the back of his eyelids. It doesn't make him feel any better. His stomach hurts, too, and he vaguely registers that he'd forgotten to eat dinner the day before. He'd fallen asleep the moment his parents had left. </p><p>They hadn't even hugged him goodbye, he realizes. He shouldn't be surprised, not really, but it still makes his chest hurt. He doesn't think his parents have hugged him in years. The closest he's gotten has been a clap on the shoulder from his father after hitting a particularly large milestone with his channel. (<em> Why don't they touch him? Is he that repulsive? </em>) </p><p>Tommy can acutely remember the last time he'd been hugged. It was the second time he'd ever met Wilbur. The first time they met they weren't really familiar enough with each other, still testing the waters in person. They were still close then, of course, but it felt odd, surreal. The most he'd gotten from Wilbur then had been a playful ruffling of his hair. (Tubbo, he remembers, had no such qualms and immediately locked him in the tightest hug of his life as soon as he'd stepped out of his dad's car.) </p><p>The second time he went to see Wilbur, it had just been them and Phil. Somewhere along the way, something had shifted, and the brother jokes stopped being quite as joking, the teasing became impossibly more fond. As soon as Tommy's dad had driven off, leaving Tommy outside of Wilbur's door, the older man had Tommy folded in a hug. It was quite possibly the best hug of his entire life. Where Tubbo's was soft and had left him feeling warm and wanted, Wilbur's hug was strong and steady and it made him feel <em> safe. </em>He never wanted to leave. </p><p>Laying in his bed in that empty, quiet house, Tommy wishes he could have one of Wilbur's hugs again. He wonders when Wilbur had replaced his parents in that fantasy. </p><p>The fan is still whirring incessantly in the corner of his room, but he doesn't make any moves to switch it off. The pressure is building, though, and Tommy knows something has to change. He pushes away the dull ache in his chest, shoving down all of the thoughts pressing at his skull. Slowly, painfully, he grasps for his phone. </p><p>His fingers move to Wilbur's contact almost instinctively, pressing the call button without really thinking. It rings five times before he comes back to himself, quickly terminating the call in mild panic. His phone dings quietly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> wilbur soot: what's up? I'm live</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tommy's gut twists with guilt.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> tommyinnit: oh shit, sorry big man. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> tommyinnit: I didn't know, you can ignore thst, sorry</em>
</p><p> </p><p>He winces after sending the messages, fingers itching to delete the second apology. He knows it's out of character, but he <em> needs </em> Wilbur to know he's sorry. He has to apologise. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> wilbur soot: it's okay. Are you alright? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> tommyinnit: I'm good big man, don't worry. have a good stream</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tommy stills the shaking in his fingers, taking a breath. He hovers over Wilbur's contact again, but quickly closes discord and opens twitch instead. He thumbs through live channels, eyes catching on Tubbo's for a moment. He keeps scrolling though, stopping when he sees Wilbur's sitting proudly under his following tab. </p><p>Tommy doesn't really know when he started gravitating towards Wilbur for comfort, but as he clicks onto the stream he relaxes considerably. Wilbur's voice floods his earbuds, filling the vacant space easily. He settles back into his pillows, setting the phone down and almost curling around it. Wilbur is laughing over something, his character navigating around rust. A small smile curls over his lips. </p><p>Tommy doesn't know when he falls asleep again, but Wilbur's stream has ended and the sun is down by the time he wakes up. He lays in place for a few moments, furrowing his eyebrows as he tries to decipher why he's awake. A faint ringing fills the air. Oh, his phone. A quick glance at the screen sends a spike of anxiety rolling through his gut. It's Wilbur. A further inspection uncovers four missed calls in their dm, the first most likely right after the stream ended and the others spanning the hours after. Tommy winces. </p><p>He lets the call time out before reluctantly calling back. Wilbur picks up before the second ring.</p><p>"<em> Tommy! </em>" </p><p>"Hey big dubs, what's up?" Tommy winces at the hoarseness of his voice. Wilbur sounds upset. </p><p>"I tried to call you after I ended my stream and you never picked up, Tommy, it's been like- six hours," his voice is pitched high in worry, exasperation leaking into the older man's tone. Guilt stabs through Tommy's midsection.</p><p>"Sorry- I know. I fell asleep before the stream ended. Just woke up. Sorry for worrying you, Will. I'm fine." (<em> he's not </em>)</p><p>There's silence from Wilbur for a few moments, then: "I ended stream at like, three, Tommy." </p><p>Tommy falls silent, shuffling uncomfortably. </p><p>"Tommy…" Wilbur's words are careful, slow, "are you okay?" Tommy's chest hurts at the worry in his tone. "Cause you seemed a little… off, earlier. I'm worried about you, Tommy." His throat feels dry.</p><p>"I'm- I'm okay, Wilbur," he croaks out. </p><p>"Why were you sleeping so late? Have you not been sleeping or something?" </p><p>"No, I've been sleeping," Tommy's voice almost breaks. He can't do anything <em> but </em> sleep. He continues before he can stop himself, "it's just- it's so <em> quiet </em>, in the house, Wilbur. I don't- I don't like it. It's nothing" </p><p>"Quiet?" He sounds confused now, and Tommy supposes it's an improvement. "What about your parents?" </p><p>"They're, uh, out, right now."</p><p>"Out? Like on a trip or something? For how long?" Tommy freezes, throat closing over. Thinking about it makes his stomach turn uneasily. "Tommy?" Wilbur prompts him gently. </p><p>"Three weeks," he mumbles.</p><p>"And- and you're all by yourself?" Wilbur sounds concerned again. Tommy furrows his brow. </p><p>"I can take care of myself, Wilbur." (<em> He doesn't mean it. He's so scared. Please don't leave him alone. </em>)</p><p>"I know, Toms," he says, leaving the '<em> you shouldn't have to' </em>unsaid. Tommy hears it in the silence anyway. He knows it's true, deep down, but it's so much harder to admit. "There's no one you can stay with? No school friends or anything?"</p><p>Tommy shakes his head before remembering Wilbur can't see him, "no." He'd, admittedly, drifted away from all of his friends nearby. He hadn't meant to, but it was just so hard to stay in touch after he hadn't spoken to them in so long. The thought sends a dull ache through his chest. He talks to people at college, but anyone he trusts enough to stay with is online. Out of reach. </p><p>"You know you can talk to me right? If it gets too quiet, you can call me, okay? I don't care what time it is, or if I'm streaming. You can call me, Tommy." Wilbur's voice is somehow firm, but impossibly soft. He leaves no room for argument. Tears prick at the corners of Tommy's eyes.</p><p>"I- thanks, Wilbur. Really," he almost chokes on the words. Tommy can't remember the last time someone had spoken to him so gently, the last time he had felt so cared for. It's almost too much.</p><p>"Any time, Toms. Do you want to hear that new song I've been working on?" </p><p>"That'd be nice." </p><p>Suddenly, the house wasn't quite as silent and Tommy didn't feel quite as heavy. He makes his way down to the kitchen as Wilbur's voice filters though his headphones, a faint smile on his face. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It is the fourth day, and Tommy is almost certain he's going to die. </p><p>He'd been doing so good, too. He'd been streaming regularly and talking to his friends, and the emptiness of his house hadn't felt quite so oppressive. Of course, his chest is always left feeling hollow after he leaves a call, after he ends a stream. It's like the warmth that fills him when he's talking to his friends gets washed away all at once. Wilbur's little messages afterwards ease the ache a little, though, and Tommy carries on. It hurts, but he's doing okay. (<em> He wants a hug. He wants soft words and fingers in his hair and warmth. He is selfish </em>.)</p><p>Laying in bed now, Tommy is anything but okay. </p><p>Wilbur had told him to call him, and, really, he could. He knew that. But right now, staring at Wilbur's contact sends a low sense of nausea rolling through his gut. He thought he was getting better. Why can't he bring himself to press the call button?</p><p>He knows Wilbur hadn't meant what he said, not really. He <em> knows </em> that. But it still sent him spiralling nonetheless. </p><p>He just ended a stream, cut off somewhat abruptly- he hopes the lackluster excuse was enough to keep his fans at bay. He just had to get out of there, he could feel the pressure building underneath his skin. It's painful to sit still, but he wants to curl up and never move again. </p><p>Tommy knows it was a joke, he does. Logically, he knows they were just kidding. That it was a bit. (<em> Then why does it still hurt? </em>). The voice call was loud and full, and it was good for a while. It drowned out the silence permeating his house. It really wasn't anything serious, just a joke taken a bit too far. No one listened to him, they brushed him off and ignored him and told him to shut up when he tried to contribute. It nearly sent him to tears, desperately trying to fend them off on camera. He hopes they weren't visible. Hot shame had rushed to his face every time, but he had to brush it off with an enraged shout or two, playing it off for the stream. </p><p>He could handle it from the others, he knew it was a joke, he was fine. But then <em> Wilbur- </em>Tommy chokes out a sob. </p><p>The words echo around his head, taunting him. </p><p><em> "God, Tommy, just shut up," </em> he'd said, laughing. " <em> You're so annoying </em>." The words had fallen just a little too flat, slightly too genuine. Immediately, Tommy had reeled back. His chest felt like ice. </p><p>He'd sat in the call for a few more minutes before muting himself and turning to the stream, plastering on a smile as if his heart hadn't been shattered. His exit is hasty, some excuse about college or groceries or something. He doesn't even remember. He sends his viewers over to Wilbur, as per their agreement, and part of him wishes it was enough to make Wilbur stay with him. To make him proud. </p><p>No one acknowledges him as he announces his departure, voice quiet. He throws his headset down like it had burned him, ignoring the faint ding of the disconnected call. </p><p>He's yet to move from his computer, knees tucked up to his chest as he sits perched on the chair. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest. </p><p>Tommy's eyes drift up to Wilbur's contact again, sliding down his list of dms before he hastily shuts down the computer. Wilbur had done a good job of hiding it, he has to admit. He always had been a good actor. Tommy wonders how hard it had been to hide his distaste for so long. Part of him always expected it, but the little optimist in him had hoped the older man actually cared for him. Wilbur, with his praise and his care and his kind words. Tommy feels sick. (He feels empty.)</p><p>He wants to call him. Wants to beg Wilbur to say it was a joke. To reassure him. Wants to say he's sorry. He wants to talk to Tubbo or Phil or Techno. Tommy drags himself to his bed instead. </p><p>He curls into himself the second he hits the sheets, arms hooking into his sides. Why does his head hurt so much? His eyes shut tight, pressing his forehead into the mattress. He can't call anyone. They wouldn't want to talk to him. They shouldn't have to deal with his shit or listen to him talk outside of streams. He's annoying, clingy. That's why his parents never stay, why people ignore him. Tommy knows this. He takes a shuddering breath. The tears tracing hot lines down his face go unnoticed until he tastes the salt on his lips. It's okay. He's okay. (<em> He's not okay. He just wants someone to care about him, why doesn't anyone care? </em>) </p><p>Tommy can feel the ice in his chest expand, stealing all of his breath away. His head hurts. He chokes down another sob, falling to the side and curling around himself protectively. Why was everything so loud all of a sudden? (<em> Why does it still feel so empty? </em>)</p><p>He needs to drown out the incessant noise of the empty house. He needs to escape. His hands fumble with his phone frantically as he navigates to YouTube with shaking fingers. His vision is blurry as he searches for Wilbur's music, his albums. He can't breathe. Tommy is certain he's going to die. (<em> Why can't he move any faster? </em>)</p><p>A stab of pain lances through his heart as Wilbur's voice filters into his ears. Kind, caring Wilbur. (<em> Maybe if he was better Wilbur would care about him, too </em>)</p><p>The pain recedes after a moment, allowing the music to wash over him. For a moment he thinks of the new song Wilbur was working on, but he pushes it from his mind. Wilbur's voice calms the ache in his chest, it always does, but it's vaguely melancholic now. Like something just out of reach. Something he can no longer have. He ignores it and shuts his eyes. Tommy just wants to go to sleep. </p><p>He feels an odd sense of deja vu as he wakes up, feeling heavy and confused. He's missing something, but he isn't quite sure what it is yet. The faint ringing of his phone clues him in.</p><p>Tommy feels his heart sink as he stares up at the ceiling, waiting as the call rings out. It feels painfully familiar. Silence washes over the room as the ringing dies out, and Tommy lets out a breath. Slowly, reluctantly he reaches for his phone. It feels like lead in his hands. He can't back out, though. Wilbur deserves that much for putting up with him for so long, at least. He feels sick.</p><p>Numbly, Tommy unlocks his phone. It's shaking in his hands. He navigates to Wilbur's contact naturally and the name sends nausea rolling through his gut. It rings once before Wilbur picks up. </p><p>"<em> Tommy! </em>"</p><p>He feels a sickening familiarity creep up on him. It's unfair that he sounds so much like he did then, voice so full of care and concern. It sends pain lancing through him. "Hey, Wilbur."</p><p>"Dude, I've been calling you forever, where have you been?" There's barely concealed panic in Wilbur's voice, as if he's unsure whether to shout or cry. </p><p>"Sorry, man. Just woke up, y'know," his tone is flat. He wishes it wouldn't waver. Tommy glances over at his window. It's midday. He winces, he's slept, like, sixteen hours. There's a beat of silence as Wilbur likely comes to a similar conclusion. </p><p>"I tried to call you right after the stream and you hadn't picked up then, either." </p><p>"Fell asleep before you ended stream, I think. Sorry big man."</p><p>Wilbur lets out a faint sigh from the other side of the line, "Tommy-"</p><p>"It's okay, big dubs, I know," Tommy cuts the older man off, hoping his voice is steady. Hearing Wilbur say it might break him, he thinks. "I can break it to the fans, don't worry. I'll come up with something. You don't have to- you don't have to do it." </p><p>There's silence from the other end before Wilbur's voice filters back in. "What? Tommy- what are you talking about? Tell them what?" </p><p>He feels tears prick at his eyes. He hadn't thought Wilbur would be so cruel as to make him say it. He supposes he deserves it, though. "You- that we- that we aren't going to make content together anymore. Unless you- unless you wanted to make a few videos or something? I know they get more views that way, I can-"</p><p>"Tommy." Wilbur's voice cuts through his ramble. Tommy feels his breath hitch. "Tommy, why- why wouldn't we make content together anymore?" He sounds genuinely confused. Tommy pauses. </p><p>"Because- because I'm annoying?" It comes out as more of a question than an answer. Shouldn't it be obvious? "I know you're tired of me- I get it, it's okay," he hates the way his voice breaks. </p><p>"Tommy," Wilbur says it slowly, deliberately, "you're not annoying. What made you think that I'm tired of you?"</p><p>"You- everyone- last night," he chokes, trying to suck in a breath. </p><p>It's enough, fortunately, and Wilbur's breath catches audibly. "Oh, <em> Toms, </em>" he coos, voice apologetic and heavy with care. It makes Tommy dizzy. He feels the tears leaving hot tracks down his cheeks. "I know we went too far last night, Toms, I'm so sorry- but, it was just a bit, okay? I didn't mean it. No one meant it, okay?"</p><p>"'s okay, w'lbr-"</p><p>"No, Tommy, it wasn't okay. I enjoy every second I spend with you, alright? I was tired last night and I shouldn't have taken it out on you, I should've told everyone to lay off."</p><p>"'s not your fault, Wilbur," Tommy insists, weakly. </p><p>"You're just a kid, Tommy. It's not your fault, alright?" He pauses for a moment before continuing quietly, "I was worried last night, you know. After the raid I- I hadn't realized you ended so soon." </p><p>"It's okay, I just, I got carried away-"</p><p>"Shh, you didn't do anything wrong, Tommy, you weren't overreacting. I love you so much, alright? That's not going to change. Not ever. You're like my little brother, Toms."</p><p>"I love you too, Wil-Wilby," the nickname slips out in-between sobs, unbidden. He flushes in embarrassment but the warmth in his chest makes it difficult to stay upset. <em> Brother. </em>The word echoes around his head, filling a vacancy he wasn't even aware of. Tommy had thought of Wilbur as his brother before, of course, but having it confirmed in no uncertain terms made his heart swell. </p><p>"Do you want to play rust for a bit, Toms? Just us," Wilbur's voice is impossibly soft, dripping in fondness. Tommy grins. </p><p>"Please."</p><p>It's still not perfect, but Tommy feels a little less alone. The house is loud as he laughs at Wilbur's jokes, but it is no longer empty. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It is the sixth day, and Tommy is dying. </p><p>His breaths come in ragged and strained, clawing at his chest. He can't seem to fill up his lungs, can't seem to move. All he can feel is blinding, paralyzing panic. It is three am, and the lights are out and the house is so dark, and empty, and <em> silent, silent, silent. </em> ( <em> He's going to die here </em>.)</p><p>Tommy chokes out a heaving sob, hand moving up to fist into his hair. There's not enough air, he's going to die. </p><p>He'd felt the paranoia building throughout the week, ever since his parents had left. He always got anxious when they were gone, but it rarely got so <em> bad. </em> ( <em> He should have seen it coming. It had only been getting worse with every trip his parents took. With every milestone he hit. </em>)</p><p>He was fine for a few days, and then the anxiety began clawing at him, digging it's nails into his flesh. He would think about going to the store only to panic because <em> what if someone followed him home? What if he was taken or killed and no one knew? </em> And that's the worst part. <em> No one would know. </em> He would die in this empty, silent house and no one would know for <em> weeks. </em>The thought always leaves him shaking. </p><p>It is three am, and Tommy is startled out of sleep only to be hit with a wave of panic so strong he nearly cries right then and there. He almost doesn't know where he is, but the stupid, droning fan pulls him back. He hates it. </p><p>His chest is heavy and somehow he's breathing far too quickly and yet can't seem to get any air in. Every noise sends him crying harder, sobs muffled into his hand. He has to be quiet. He doesn't know why, but he does. He has to. (<em> Why did they leave him alone? </em>)</p><p>He needs something. Needs someone. He doesn't want to die alone, not in this stupid silent house. Tommy's hands fumble for his phone at his bedside, shaking so badly it nearly falls through his fingers. He needs someone to know. He doesn't want to rot here. </p><p>Wilbur's contact is dialed before his mind can even catch up, the quiet droning ring filling his room. He's called his actual contact, he notes distantly, rather than through discord. It rings five times before Wilbur picks up, shuffling on the other line.</p><p>"Tommy? It's like, three am, dude, what's wrong?" His voice is tired and raspy. Tommy's probably woken him up. </p><p>His voice breaks as he nearly wails, "W'lbur-" He chokes, interrupted by a sob. </p><p>"Tommy? Tommy, what's wrong?" Wilbur's voice is slightly panicked, suddenly far more awake than before.</p><p>"I'm- I think im- 'm gonna die, w'lbr-" Tommy's breath picks up again as he grips his phone tight. His head hurts. </p><p>"Hey, hey, breathe, Toms. Can you- can you tell me what's wrong? Are you safe?" </p><p>Tommy glances around his room, dark and empty. The house is empty. "I don't- I don't know," he mumbles, voice trembling around sobs. </p><p>This doesn't reassure Wilbur, apparently, as he sounds almost frantic when he asks, "are you home?" </p><p>"Y-yeah, 'm home."</p><p>"Okay, okay, that's good. Can you breathe for me, Toms? Can you match my breathing, Tommy?" Wilbur's voice is smooth, reassuring as he starts taking in loud, over-exaggerated breaths. Tommy struggles to match them, the air seems to catch his throat, but he continues. It's painful, but he doesn't want to let Wilbur down. (<em> He can't let Wilbur down </em>.) He relaxes slightly as his breathing evens out. It's not perfect, still shaky at best, but he's not gasping for air anymore. "That's good, Toms, you're doing so good," Wilbur compliments him, voice gentle. Tommy sucks in a shaking breath, no longer feeling like he's drowning. "Okay, good, you're okay, Tommy. You're alright. Can you tell me what's wrong?"</p><p>"I- I'm so <em> scared </em> Wilbur-" he chokes out, tears still steadily making their way down his face. "I keep trying to do things, to go places, and I just- I think, I think about how someone could just <em> kill me, </em> or take me, or something- I don't <em> know </em>."</p><p>Wilbur feels his heart break. Tommy sniffles from the other side of the line, "I could die here, w'lbr- and- and no one would know for <em> weeks. </em>" </p><p>"Hey, hey, Toms. Listen to me, okay? You're okay- it's going to be okay." Wilbur takes in a breath, settling himself. "Here- what about- what if I text you every morning, okay? I'll text you every morning and ask if you're okay, and if you don't respond in like- an hour, I'll call the police or something. I'll drive over there myself, if I have to. Does that sound good, Tommy?" </p><p>There's a vague noise of agreement on the other end, faint sniffles still coming through. "... Promise?" </p><p>"Of course, Toms. Every day, 12 o'clock okay? No matter what."</p><p>"Alright," Tommy agrees, still sounding painfully small. Wilbur wants to hold him and never let go.</p><p>"Have you been to the store at all since they left?" Wilbur questions, voice somewhat tinny through his phone speakers. </p><p>Tommy hums, glancing around his room "no, I just- I worry, like, about someone recognizing me and following me home or something. It's not that bad when my parents are home, but when I'm alone I just- I worry. It's stupid." </p><p>"It's not stupid, Toms. But- you do need to go to the store soon- you ought to be running out of food by now, yeah?" </p><p>Tommy's mind flashes to the bare fridge. It's been like that since before his parents left, though. They never bother to restock it before they leave. (It's not like he finds the time to eat all that much anyway.) He just hums in response.</p><p>"Try to go out tomorrow, yeah? You can wear like- sunglasses and a hoodie with your mask or something to stop anyone from recognizing you, okay? But you need to get food stuff n' shit." </p><p>The care in the older man's tone has him agreeing. He hates disappointing Wilbur more than anything in the world.</p><p>"You should probably go to sleep, Toms, it's late," Wilbur rumbles gently, but a spike of fear jolts through him.</p><p>"No! No- could you, could you stay? Just for a bit, I'm…" he trails off, but Wilbur understands. </p><p>"Yeah, I'll stay," he soothes, voice soft. "I found a new mod the other day," he starts, and Tommy relaxes into his pillows. Wilbur's voice soothes him back to sleep.</p><p>He wakes up to the ding of a text message, exactly 12 o'clock. He smiles faintly, and maybe he'll be okay.</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Now, Wilbur mighthave a bit of an anxiety problem. He'll be the first to admit that he has a slight tendency to agonize over things far more than he should. He's not sure he's overreacting now, though. (He never is, but that's beside the point.)</p><p>Wilbur's hand twitches towards his phone, itching to text Tommy's parents or, worse yet, jump in his car and drive over himself. </p><p>It's just, Tommy's words keep swirling around in his head. <em> I could die here and no one would know. </em> He hates that the sentiment is familiar to him. He hates that Tommy is worrying about something like that. He's so <em> young </em>.</p><p>He just sounded so <em> scared. </em>The sound of his sobs, the way his voice shook, it's branded into Wilbur's mind. They echo around in his head and make him feel sick to his stomach. Wilbur wants to hold him and never let him out of his sight again. </p><p>What if something <em> does </em>happen to him? He's all alone at home- what if he slips in the shower or something? What if someone breaks in? What if he gets hurt and there's no one around to help him? </p><p>It's not that he doesn't trust Tommy- he does, he just doesn't trust anyone else. And, to be fair, Tommy isn't exactly the best with self care and all that. For all Wilbur knows he's surviving off of granola bars and cereal or something. He knows Tommy said he's doing better, but he has a terrible habit of <em> lying, </em> the little shit. Is he eating enough? Sleeping? Taking care of himself? </p><p>He tries to distract himself but there's a constant pit of nausea in his gut, dragging his thoughts back to worrying over the stupid kid. Oh God, Wilbur's going to do something stupid, isn't he? He's definitely to going to do something stupid. </p><p>He lasts about a day. </p><p>Wilbur wakes up shaking, mind filled with images of Tommy, crying or hurt or <em> dead, </em>and Wilbur knows he's going to do something dumb. He gets up, stuffing some clothes in a bag along with his laptop and some necessities, tugging on a pair of shoes and stumbling out the door without a thought. Is he going to regret this? Probably not. </p><p>He sends off a message to Tommy's parents, trying his best to keep it as minimally passive aggressive as he can (he's pissed, but he kind of needs their permission). It's simple and to the point, and Wilbur tosses his phone to the side before pulling out of his driveway without waiting for a response. He's going to see Tommy regardless, but permission would be nice. </p><p><em> Would Tommy be able to stay with me while you two are away? </em> He types, pausing before adding <em> for YouTube and everything, </em>hoping that if it's career related they might be more amenable. </p><p>And then he's on his way. It's five am, and Wilbur is driving to Nottingham in his little silver car, residual anxiety buzzing under his skin. He's got three hours to go. He'll get there before he has to text Tommy at twelve. </p><p>The car ride passes in a blur, mostly. Wilbur sits in silence, eyes on the road and knuckles white on the steering wheel. The only thing on his mind is getting to Tommy's house, and getting there <em> fast. </em>The remnants of his nightmare swim around in his head but he pushes them down, feeling vaguely sick. It only serves to put more urgency into his movements. He's never letting Tommy out of his sight again, parents be damned.</p><p>It doesn't feel like long before Wilbur's pulling into a familiar drive, narrowing his eyes at the way it sits empty of cars. Unease rests heavy in his stomach. He knows Tommy is fine, really, he does. But he doesn't think he'll relax until the boy is in his arms. </p><p>He doesn't remember leaving his car, but suddenly he stands in front of an old, gray door. The paint is peeling a little from the bottom, he notes. </p><p>And then Wilbur's knocking, anxiety curled in his gut. </p><p>It is the eighth day, and Tommy wakes up to knocking at his front door. </p><p>For a short moment, he thinks it might be his parents, but he extinguishes the thought quickly. They never return early. </p><p>He lays in bed for a few seconds, staring at his ceiling in mild confusion. There's a pause, and then three more knocks ring through the house. Tommy drags himself out of bed. Maybe the neighbors? A solicitor? He doesn't know, but he dutifully tugs on a pair of sweats and runs a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. It's far too early to get out of bed. </p><p>Tommy trudges down the stairs, hunger tugging at his stomach absently. He never ended up going to the store, he realizes, wincing in guilt. He'll have to do that today. </p><p>With a flick of his hand, the front door opens, and Tommy freezes in place, eyes wide. </p><p>In front of him is none other than Wilbur Soot.</p><p> He looks rather sheepish, for all it's worth, shifting on his feet, and Tommy is more confused than anything. His brain struggles to catch up.</p><p>"...Wilbur?" </p><p>"Hey, Tommy." The older flashes him a little smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Can I, uh, come in?" </p><p>Tommy is falling into his arms before he even realizes it, head tucked into his brother's shoulder. Wilbur almost staggers with how quickly Tommy throws his weight at him, but manages to stay upright. He wastes no time in wrapping the boy up in his arms, shoving his face into blond curls. Wilbur feels himself relax for the first time in over a day<em> , </em> mind a constant stream of <em> Tommy's okay. Tommy's here and breathing and alive. He's okay. </em></p><p>Tommy feels himself tear up at the warmth he feels collapsing into Wilbur's arms. His skin tingles where it's pressed against the other's, and it's almost too much. He thinks he might cry. Why does he want to cry? </p><p>Wilbur's hugs are just as he remembers them, strong and safe and warm, and the scent of seafoam clings to him. Tommy never wants to leave, he wants to stay like this forever and never move again. Unfortunately, the world seems to work against him.</p><p>"Let's move inside, bud," Wilbur murmurs from above him, and Tommy reluctantly peels himself away. He immediately feels cold. His chest aches, but Tommy leads the older man inside, dropping onto his couch. He hasn't been in the living room in days. </p><p>"... So," Tommy says, drawing his knees up to his chest. Wilbur slides down next to him. "What're you doing here?" </p><p>"What, no hello?" Wilbur jokes. Tommy just raises an eyebrow. "Fine. I just- wanted to come see you, I guess. Is there something wrong with wanting to visit my little brother?" He huffs. </p><p>"You live three hours away, Wilbur." He says flatly. "And you didn't tell me you were coming, might I add- not that it isn't lovely to see you, big man. But a little warning would've been nice."</p><p>"To be completely honest, <em> I </em> didn't even know I was coming until like eight this morning," Wilbur says, glancing away. "I texted your parents, by the way."</p><p>Tommy hums, studying the other for a moment. His hair is messy, and the bruises under his eyes probably match Tommy's own. He's got his dumb circle glasses on. They both look kind of rough, frankly.</p><p>Tommy lets out a little sigh, crawling over to curl up next to the older man. Shoving his face into Wilbur's shoulder, he inhales. "We'll deal with this later. Lay down, bitch boy." </p><p>Wilbur glaces at him, looking like he might argue for a moment before complying with a little sigh. He's really fucking tired. The older man shifts over so Tommy can curl into his chest, wrapping his arms around the boy and resting his chin on his head. They'll talk about it later, right now it's eight o'clock in the morning and Tommy is determined to get a few more hours of sleep. Wilbur is content to be close to him. They sleep easier than they have in days.</p><p>When Tommy wakes up, it takes him a few moments to remember why he's on the couch. His eyebrows draw together as he glances around the room, looking for Wilbur. The older man has disappeared from underneath him, leaving a cold vacancy in his place. His phone reads 12:30, and for a moment Tommy fears that Wilbur's left him until he hears the faint rustling from his kitchen. </p><p>With a little yawn, Tommy stumbles from the couch over to his kitchen, finding Wilbur sat at the counter with his phone in one hand and a McDonald's burger in the other. </p><p>"Oh! Tommy, you're up," Wilbur says, a little smile curling over his lips as he collapses into the chair across from the man. </p><p>"Mornin' W'lbr," he mumbles, marble countertop cool against his cheek.</p><p>"Went out and got breakfast- lunch? I dunno. Got food while you were asleep. Your fridge was empty," he says, glancing over at the boy with a raised eyebrow. </p><p>Tommy winces, looking away. "Thanks," he says, unwrapping the burger slid in his direction. Wilbur just hums. </p><p>"So, how're you, Toms?" </p><p>Tommy fixes him with an unimpressed look, taking a bite of his burger. "Really? Not gonna address the whole 'showing up at my house randomly' thing?" </p><p>It's Wilbur's turn to look sheepish, glancing away from the sixteen year old. "Yeah, well. I told you I wanted to visit, yeah?" </p><p>"If you just wanted to visit you could've asked me or something first," Tommy points out, not really upset but still taking the chance to needle his friend. </p><p>Wilbur rolls his eyes, brushing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. I know I should have texted you first. I just texted your parents and got in the car, okay? Wasn't really thinking." </p><p>Tommy studies him, narrowing his eyes before shrugging. "Okay," he hums, taking another bite of his food.</p><p>Wilbur looks at him for a moment before letting out a sigh, slumping over. "I was just worried, Toms," he admits softly, "you know how I get." </p><p>Tommy frowns, guilt niggling at his gut. "Sorry."</p><p>"Wasn't your fault, Toms. I just- needed to come check on you or whatever. See it for myself." He pauses a moment before adding softly, "didn't want you to be alone, either." </p><p>"I told you I'm fine-"</p><p>"No, Toms, you shouldn't have to put up with it," Wilbur rumbles, crossing his arms at leaning back. "You- you shouldn't have to <em> worry </em> like that. <em> I </em> don't want you to have to worry like that," he adds quietly, mouth dry. </p><p>Tommy looks away, chewing his food quietly. He knows it's true.</p><p>"I texted your parents, before I left," Wilbur murmurs, looking over at Tommy. "I asked them if we could stay together while they're away," he says it quietly, tentatively.</p><p>Tommy looks over at him, heart tugging oddly. "What… what did they say?"</p><p>"They said- they said we can… if you, uh, wanted. That they'd text me when they needed you back home," Wilbur says carefully, a hopeful lilt to his voice.</p><p>"Really?" Tommy breathes, looking at Wilbur with wide eyes. The man hums in confirmation. </p><p>"We can uh- I can stay here, if you want. I'll take the couch or something. Or we could go back to my flat. I've got a spare room you could use. It's up to you, Toms," Wilbur jolts, eyes snapping back to Tommy. He looks uncharacteristically nervous. "That is- if you even want to-"</p><p>Tommy is nodding before he even registers it, smile rising to his face unbidden. "I want to- I mean, I'd like that," he says, tripping over his words. "Do you- do you have your stuff here already?" </p><p>"I've got enough to stay for a few days," Wilbur says, a relieved grin spreading over his lips. "I'd have to go back and get some other stuff after that, though." </p><p>Tommy hums, glancing around the kitchen before shaking his head. "Nah, I'd rather come to yours, I think," he says. The house feels wrong without his parents, no matter how he tries to fill it. </p><p>Wilbur smiles at him, eyes shining, "sounds good. We'll leave later today, yeah? Just get packed." </p><p>And that's what they do. They lounge around his house for a bit, Tommy leading Wilbur on an exaggerated tour, before they decide to actually get packing. They manage to haul his setup into the trunk of Wilbur's car, and he throws a handful of his clothes into a suitcase, not bothering to put too much thought into it. </p><p>He locks up his house, taking a last glance around before turning away. He falls into Wilbur's arms as he steps down from the porch.</p><p>"Thank you, Will," he murmurs, tightening his grip on the older man. He laughs, ruffling the younger's hair before squeezing him just as tight. </p><p>"No problem, Toms," Wilbur whispers, face resting in golden curls before pulling away. "Now c'mon, places to be and all that," he says, flashing a winning smile. Tommy follows him to the car, and for once he doesn't feel so heavy.</p><p>As they pull out of his driveway, the car is loud and warm, and Wilbur is laughing along to something on the radio. His head is quiet and his heart is full, and for a moment Tommy thinks things are going to be alright for once. His house grows smaller behind them, and Tommy feels light. </p><p>His brother ruffles his hair, and Tommy whines, but the smile on his face gives him away. The ride is long, but they barely notice it, and before long they're parking the car and stumbling out, all giddy grins and hopeful glances.</p><p>The spare room in Wilbur's flat is more of a home than his parent's ever was, and Tommy thinks it's going to be alright now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This fic ended up being,, so much longer than I intended. I'm pretty proud of it though!! I might end up writing another piece later about Wilbur and Tommy living together, but we'll see :)</p><p>Comments are very appreciated!! Tysm for reading and I hope you enjoyed &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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